ROAD TRIP 2006, WESTWARD: THE DEEPER SOUTH

Day 7 (6/13): Breakin’ the Law

When we hit the Alabama border the day before the heat and humidity jumped up to their full blown summer heights, and the hardwood forests of Tennessee ceded the roadsides to endless pines. A giant rocket loomed out of the forest in the distance. Eventually we found a visitor’s center at its base, where we learned that Huntsville, AL hosts a major NASA facility. Who knew.

We got to Shawn’s place in Centreville without difficulty, where Shawn lives for next to nothing in a next to empty house. Beers, frozen pizza, and the Grizzly Man.

The next day we hopped in Shawn’s truck and headed into Talladega National Forest where he works. Checked out some of his trap lines, learned the difference between a long-leaf and a loblolly pine, finally learned the name of those crazy white flowers I’d been seeing along the side of the road (Yucca filamentosa), and saw some leaf-footed bugs on the yucca.

Then we went to the shooting range. Did I mention Shawn brought a shotgun? He did. We also bought some ammo and clay targets. Did you know there is a special little plastic jai alai thing for hurling clay pigeons? There is. The shooting range was in the middle of the woods and was completely empty, fractionally decreasing the chance of Dave or I maiming anyone. Neither of us had ever fired a gun before. Did you know shotguns are very loud? They are. Did you also know that a lifetime of watching people fire guns in movies and on TV is not sufficient preparation for the proper loading, holding, and firing of a shotgun? It isn’t. Despite witnessing countless burly protagonists pause, pump their shot guns with that universally recognized “chk-CHK,” and issue one-liners like “Good bye, ironic term of affection,” I actually had to be told that depressing the trigger would not actually do anything without first pumping to load a cartridge into the chamber.

Holding the gun was also an adventure. When Shawn held the gun, an alien observer unfamiliar with human firearms could probably still tell that he was about to inflict some kind of damage on whatever he was pointing at. When Dave or I held the gun, the same observer could just as easily conclude from our postures alone that we were about to take our own lives with some kind of combusting suicide contraption, designed specifically to maximize the shame of the event by forcing the user into a position of maximum awkwardness.

I know I’m talking a lot about the gun here, but it was an interesting experience for a bicoastal suburbanite like myself. I think most disturbing of all was how fun it was. It’s loud, it destroys things, you can feel it fire when you pull the trigger, and you get to test your aim. Next most disturbing thing was to feel, in reality, exactly how easy it would be to shoot someone. Load, pump, pull, dead. That said, it was so fun that I don’t think I’d hesitate to do it again given the opportunity. I’m not about to go BUY a gun or anything, but it gave me a little more insight into why people might.

To complete the Southern experience, we threw the gun in the back, bought a six pack, and drank while speeding down the highway. I took my unopened can and nonchalantly dangled it to the side in compliance with years of drug education and fear of the law. After assailment with arguments like, “Southerners usually don’t drive WITHOUT a beer,” and “You are a pussy,” I acquiesced, opened the can, which subsequently foamed uncontrollably, which caused me to hold the can out the window, which resulted in much of the beer blowing back into the truck, specifically into Dave’s face in the back.

Had some surprisingly good pork at the B & B BBQ, one of about 3 places to eat in town. Spent the afternoon slacking and watching Jesus is magic.

Day 8 (6/14): More and More

Shawn’s friend Scott had come to town the night before so they could go pig hunting in the morning. Feral pigs thrive in many parts of America, but they are not native to this land and cause a great deal of damage to the plants and animals that are. Also, they taste good. Shawn and Scott invited Dave and I to come along, but since Dave generally cannot rise before the hour of 9 AM, there were only three of us. Once again, my conscience and fear of legal repercussions told me not to actually hunt without a license, but peer pressure won over. Despite numerous wallows and tracks, we didn’t see any pigs, or fire a single shot. We did see a four-toed salamander, a gray rat snake, several crickets, and a green anole. Oh, and about two trillion deer flies, ancient enemies from my Eastern past.

After yet another greasy delicious breakfast, we went fishing on the Cahaba. Well, Shawn and Scott fished, while I pretended to fish, and Dave, ever the iconoclast, pretended he was an otter. I lost my first lure up a tree in Shawn’s front yard, practicing casting, something I haven’t done for years. Shawn found this perplexing and advised me to practice on the river before his front yard looked like a Christmas tree from Cabela’s. The river turned out to be just as good a place for losing tackle. I almost drowned swimming to fish one out, mostly due to the fact that I can barely swim. You might think this would have prevented me from swimming to release a snagged lure, but if you did, you would think wrong. I did manage to hook one little bass. Scott lost his rod in a patch of especially rapid water, and he and Shawn took turns crawling along the rocks at the bottom in search. I came over to help, but quickly realized I would probably just lose my grip and get dashed upon the rocks downstream. Also, embarrassingly, I’ve never been able to open my eyes under water. Hooray for emasculation!

Later, Shawn’s mom arrived to visit, and we went to Tuscaloosa to try Dreamland BBQ’s famous ribs. Dave had heard wonderful things, and Shawn had heard less than wonderful things, so we were eager to sample. Cool place, windowless interior bedecked with endless BBQ bric-a-brac (five times fast, if you please). Nothing served but ribs, sauce, and white sliced bread. That all seemed great, but the ribs were decidedly not. They had clearly been cooked too fast to actually be considered barbeque. These were grilled, chewy and juicy. I like grilled ribs plenty, but we came for barbeque, and didn’t get it. So if you ever find yourself in Alabama with a hankering for the sweet smokey flavor of tender pork ribs, don’t bother with Dreamland.

You SHOULD, however, bother with Leetha’s, even though it’s in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Shawn sang it’s praises, so after our thank yous and goodbyes, Dave and I made for Hattiesburg, armed only a with a name and phone number of one of Shawn’s friends. When we called Ben, he was convinced that we were food journalists from California, that we were writing a huge article about barbeque, and that a BBQ roadtrip was badass. His directions to Leetha’s were hilariously vague, the final portion of which went something like, “Take when you see a bunch of RVs, not like a park but new RVs, and Leetha’s is around back.” That turned out to be the most accurate portion, because Leetha’s is, in fact, in the middle of an RV dealership. You certainly can’t see it from the road.

Leetha is reportedly a big black woman who has perfected the art of barbequed ribs. Her daughter was manning the place when we arrived, making the rounds in an enormous blue muumuu. “Memory of an elephant,” Ben said, and indeed, she held no pad or pen. A recent convert, Ben ordered the vegetarian platter, an item not on the menu and not in the kitchen, so he settled for a salad and beans. He then proceeded to regale us with all manner of bizarre stories about Mississippi, his life as a junk yard operator and selling scrap, Katrina, etc. He told us that during Katrina, he and his buddies were drinking beer. When they saw trees falling and power lines down out the window, they knew, then and there, that they needed to get more beer. He also described going to Leetha’s soon after the storm, where they had a surplus of meat but no one to sell it to (yet), so he bought $200 worth, picked up as much beer from his local Asian market as he could, and sat out the aftermath of the storm with ribs and suds while chaos reigned outside.

Said ribs were very good, probably the best of the trip to date (save the competition stuff). Dave was nonplussed, but I remain a fan.

We stayed at the apartment of another friend of Shawn’s (who wasn’t even there) after having a quiet drink with the guy’s apartment-mate and Ben (who performed an impromptu guitar anthem to our BBQ tour). Having the drink, one of the waitresses told us she thought a BBQ quest was really cool, and that she just wanted to say that. I’m assuming she was making fun of us, but it’s kind of nice to imagine she wasn’t.